Some Kind of Miracle
by hrhrionastar
Summary: Reckoning AU. Darken/Kahlan/Dahlia, threesome fic: Ever since Dahlia helped Darken and Kahlan conceive the next heir to the throne, a few things are different around the Palace...
1. Just This Once

**Just This Once**

"You know, they say the use of an agiel increases the chances of conception," Darken Rahl (her _husband_!) says calmly. If Kahlan didn't know better, she'd think he was trying to reassure her.

"That's the only reason I'm doing this," she replies harshly, unconsciously pulling her red robe closer about her shoulders.

She never thought this day would come—that she would marry Darken Rahl to save Richard's life and bring him back to her at least makes a certain twisted kind of sense, nightmare though it is.

But that she would ever voluntarily let a Mord'Sith into her marriage bed—

She prays, whoever the woman is, she won't be like Denna. Kahlan doesn't think she could bear that.

Darken squeezes her thigh gently, and then there's a knock on the door.

_It's been five months since the wedding and I'm still not pregnant,_ Kahlan thinks frantically. _If Richard's going to get back he needs a Confessor and there's no way Darken'll let me live that long and who am I kidding? If I hadn't married him he'd have tortured me every day until I broke, until I didn't even remember Richard's name—_

The Mord'Sith looks tall, but Kahlan deduces that's only because she's whipcord thin and wearing heeled boots, and that she's actually smaller than Kahlan. Her hair is an indiscriminate brown, her eyes cool blue, and her lips full and red. She's prettier, more delicate, than Denna—and Kahlan is grateful for that distinction.

"My Lord," the Mord'Sith says. "My Lady."

"Come in," Darken invites, but Kahlan isn't listening.

She tries to catch her breath, but it sounds like a sob in her ears. Without meaning to, she clutches Darken's hand so hard her knuckles turn white.

He, at least, she understands—she's miserable without Richard of course, and she's married to the same tyrant who tried to destroy everything she loves and caused so many deaths—but at this moment, he makes her feel safe. When he kills her, she thinks she'll even understand _that_, too.

If only she can give Richard a Confessor first.

The door closes, and Kahlan stares at the Mord'Sith—her image like Kahlan's worst nightmare made flesh. (Her Rada'Han has never felt so heavy, around her neck—she itches to Confess the Mord'Sith, as is surely her duty.)

She keeps picturing Richard and Denna, wondering if he felt as confused and terrified and angry and aroused as she does—

"Take off your leathers," she demands suddenly. "Take them_ off_!" There's a hint of hysteria in her voice, and the Mord'Sith raises her eyebrows.

And Darken is there, unlacing expertly, and Kahlan forces herself to lie back on the pillows, biting her lip and trying not to think about pleasure or pain…

Once, long ago, Mother Confessor Serena sat Kahlan and her sister Confessors down for a truly excruciating talk about taking a mate—all about the importance of someone…physically pleasing, because Confessors can't conceive unless they experience that moment—that loss of control inextricably linked with the release of their power.

It's not so inextricable, it turns out—not now that Kahlan is bound by a Rada'Han.

And maybe the ironic thing is that Darken Rahl is precisely the sort of man Kahlan would have taken as a mate if she could have, because he's strong and powerful and he certainly meets that other qualification…no matter how much she hates her body's treachery.

(She's certainly lost control with him many times, more than she can count…she blushes, remembering—_that_ is surely not their problem. Not why she still isn't pregnant after five long months…But supposing—horrible thought!—that she is barren? She can't stand the idea that she really is the very last Confessor.)

And maybe, she thinks as the Mord'Sith crawls predatorily toward her on the bed, naked skin gleaming palely in the candlelight, that's why she agreed to this. If she doesn't get pregnant soon, she may not be able to resist Darken's relentless wearing down of her defenses…

After the baby's born, he's already told her, he won't come back to their marriage bed, not "until you invite me" with a smoldering look and lingering breath on her neck…

She meets the Mord'Sith's eyes, aware of Darken with every fiber of her being, and shivers—with anticipation or dread, she's not sure.

The Mord'Sith smiles, and runs her agiel gently up Kahlan's arm, its touch almost tickling, it's so feather-light…

Kahlan almost screams. Only the pride of dozens of generations of Confessors, weathered down until there is only her, makes her clench her jaw and remain silent. She will not give the Mord'Sith that satisfaction.

"Kahlan," Darken says, one hand on the Mord'Sith's back and the other finding Kahlan's fingers again. She clings to him, not ashamed—there is no place for her vague imaginings of Richard here—"Relax."

And then he's kissing her, and Kahlan pulls him down to her, willing herself to let this happen—the Mord'Sith is like corrosive fire at her side, but Darken is her oasis—

It's funny, she thinks wonderingly, the difference consent makes—the agiel is still burning through her skin, calling forth her own power in wordless answer (were she free, the Mord'Sith would be dead already), but now it makes her feel a different sort of fire.

The pain makes everything seem sharper—she feels clean for the first time since Richard disappeared. And Kahlan doesn't think she'll forget this night as long as she lives.

"My Queen," Darken is murmuring, over and over…the Mord'Sith's agiel is pressed between her and Kahlan, while their tongues fight for dominance in something that is so far from being chaste it can hardly be called a kiss…

"Darken—" Kahlan gasps, arching her neck as her power tears through her, encounters her Rada'Han, and washes back into Kahlan's blood—

She's already cured herself of her foolish tendency to call out Richard's name at moments like this.

Afterwards, Darken pulls Kahlan close, inhaling the scent of her hair. Kahlan forces herself to stay alert.

It's scant minutes before the Mord'Sith is recovered and goes to pick her leathers up off the floor, shaking out her hair, unbraided and shining in the candlelight, impassive as always.

Kahlan would just let it go, but for all she knows, this woman has just helped her conceive the Confessor who will help Richard back to his own time, and that's a gift so great she can no longer hold a grudge.

Besides, that kiss…

"What's your name?" Kahlan asks abruptly.

The Mord'Sith pauses, raises an eyebrow…"Dahlia, my Lady," she says respectfully. "Mistress Dahlia."

Kahlan smiles, loving the way the Mord'Sith—_Dahlia_—looks completely unsettled at the sight. "I'm…delighted to make your acquaintance," she says.

"Oh, I _know_ you are," Dahlia says slyly.

"That will be all, Mistress Dahlia," Darken says. His voice is polite, but, as so often with him, it holds a hidden menace.

For the first time, Kahlan wonders if he does that on purpose, or if he just doesn't remember how to shut it off.

Dahlia salutes, and goes, the door closing softly behind her.

With a sigh, Kahlan lets herself cuddle closer to Darken, a part of her screaming that every night she lies with a murderer (or two—the Mord'Sith are dangerous…), but that part temporarily silenced by the fact that she has no choice—she belongs here now.

In a world that shouldn't exist.

"What made you choose Dahlia?" she asks, after awhile. "Specifically?"

Darken doesn't answer for so long she thinks maybe he isn't going to. He's staring up at the featureless ceiling, idly pulling a lock of Kahlan's hair through his fingers, while she listens to his heart beating…

"Dahlia and I…" Darken says at last. "Both lost someone special to us. Half a year ago."

Kahlan gasps, this oblique reference to Richard hurting, as her thoughts of him always hurt. He is not with her—he has abandoned her. She must work for his return, but she can't help resenting the way he just left—even though she knows it wasn't his fault. And then, too, ever since she let Darken Rahl put a ring on her finger (and began praying nightly that she might carry his child), guilt weighs down on her heart, whenever she thinks of Richard.

But Darken can't mean he and Dahlia lost Richard—they would have no reason to care if he disappeared, or died, as everyone but Kahlan and Shota thinks occurred.

So whom does he mean?

"Oh," Kahlan murmurs, and then, with an effort, "I'm—sorry."

He kisses her hair. "Dahlia deserves this," he says. "She shouldn't have to be alone."

Kahlan ponders that as her eyes drift closed. Darken and Dahlia both lost someone—the Mord'Sith who disappeared with Richard, it must be. She tries to say it doesn't matter, that Mord'Sith are not human—but Darken's compassion for Dahlia touches her. And she guesses at the vulnerability he would die rather than show her.

"Maybe," she says sleepily, "we should name our daughter Dahlia…"

"Kahlan?" In contrast, Darken now sounds wide-awake. "Are you—you couldn't possibly know already—"

"A Confessor," she informs him firmly, "always knows."

And it's true—she feels the faint stirrings of a sort of gathering in her womb, like the way her power feels when she has her hand around someone's throat…

She is so grateful—a baby! Her daughter will save the world, she can feel it.

And to think it might not have happened without Dahlia—Kahlan is cured of her hatred for the Mord'Sith.

Right now, a happy glow surrounds her, and all she wants is to stay in Darken's warm embrace forever…

In her dreams, Richard screams, 'Traitor!' and she tries vainly to explain that she's doing it all for him—

* * *

><p>While Kahlan sleeps in his arms, Darken stares up at the ceiling, feeling the way her hair tickles his chin, and remembers…<p>

It's odd—Kahlan has just told him she's pregnant, and his mind should be filled with that, scheming for the little prince or princess about to enter their lives…

Instead, he finds himself dwelling uncomfortably on Cara, on the son she bore him, on his own nebulous fears of fatherhood—he misses her.

To distract himself, Darken thinks of Dahlia, hurrying away—he knows she's just outside the door, guarding his and Kahlan's rest. Mord'Sith don't cuddle, but Kahlan, Darken has discovered these past five months, needs to be held—needs to be touched.

It's a surprisingly endearing quality, all things considered.

And so Darken cuddles with his sleeping wife, and marvels at his good fortune.

It would be foolish to do otherwise, when his reign is at last uncontested, the Seeker who haunted his childhood dead—

But still he thinks of Cara, and it is long before he sleeps.

* * *

><p>Outside the door, Dahlia also thinks of Cara—but the way of the Mord'Sith is to look forward, not back.<p>

Her Sisters scoff at their new Confessor Queen, sure this is merely some whim of Lord Rahl's—but Dahlia, giving the matter her considered opinion, finds it likely Lady Rahl is here to stay.

And, after tonight, she isn't sorry, either. Lady Rahl has a surprisingly high pain threshold, for a Confessor.

It will be interesting to see how she adjusts to life in D'Hara.

And Dahlia means to watch her, every step of the way—she has to protect Lord Rahl's interests, after all.

(Lady Rahl used to be part of the Resistance, and she convinced Lord Rahl to grant the lot of them an amnesty no Mord'Sith would have countenanced—she is still dangerous, Rada'Han or not.)

All in all, she's very grateful Lord Rahl invited her to his marriage bed.


	2. Sparring

**Sparring**

Nine months later, Nicholas is born.

Kahlan resists as long as she can, but she is a mother first, and she cradles him against her breast, and tells herself the rules don't apply, not in her case.

The first few months are a whirlwind of caring for Nicholas, of course—no matter how many nurses and tutors and servants Darken chooses to employ for the little prince, Kahlan is never truly easy when her son is out of her sight.

She's not sure whether to be more afraid for him, her child, her hope for the future—or everyone else, the innocents he will no doubt hurt, as is his nature, as a male Confessor.

She tries to tell herself the D'Harans aren't innocent, but she was trained to judge people, and she admits to a grudging admiration for that ceaseless courage and respect—her husband's soldiers were once (and are still, she tells her treacherous heart) her worst enemies, yet they afford her all the marks of her new authority, as their Queen.

It's…unsettling, particularly since she knows perfectly well she has no power. She despises herself for thinking this is better than languishing in a dungeon, even if she still sleeps alone…

(Not that she misses those nights with Darken, desperately trying to get pregnant so that Richard can return—)

And then one day, when Nicholas is taking his afternoon nap and peacefulness seems to have descended on the entire Palace, Kahlan paces up and down her rooms restlessly, willing herself not to dwell on memories that can only confuse her and divert her from her purpose.

_I know what I need, _she realizes with a sudden jolt, _a really good sparring session!_ It's been so long since she fought for her life (physically, anyway) and Kahlan hates the thought that she's losing her edge—she won't turn into the perfectly coiffed and perfectly useless lady it would be so easy to become, now that she wears slippers instead of boots.

She hasn't seen her daggers since the night Richard disappeared, of course, but it isn't as though, short of locking her in her rooms, Darken could ever keep weapons wholly out of her grasp, uneasy peace or not. The People's Palace was once a fortress, and Kahlan still gets chills sometimes, studying tapestries and picturing wars even more terrible than any she's lived through.

She wanders the corridors, thinking about finding Darken—_but that's just going to end one way; I can't kill him, that would ruin everything—not that he'd give me the chance—and in the heat of the moment, I might—_

Kahlan squeezes her eyes shut and makes herself picture Richard—she isn't getting his smile exactly right, and she struggles with it for what seems like forever—

"Oh!" Kahlan's eyes fly open as she turns a corner and bumps into someone—smooth leather against her velvet gown (too bad the material is so thick…)—"Dahlia!"

"My Lady," Dahlia acknowledges, stepping back respectfully. If she weren't a Mord'Sith, Kahlan surmises she might even apologize, although the collision was all Kahlan's fault.

Kahlan looks Dahlia up and down, unconsciously relaxing—knots of tension she didn't know she had disappear, and she tosses her elaborately curled hair over her shoulder and smiles, because things are finally going her way.

"Dahlia," she says warmly, "Would you help me with something?"

* * *

><p>At first, Dahlia worries Lady Rahl wants her to babysit little Lord Nicholas. Not that she isn't thrilled Lord Rahl has his heir (even if there's a part of her that still feels Cara deserved the honor—her son could have been—if it hadn't been for—but that is in the past), but she isn't much for children.<p>

Besides, the boy has a good dozen nurses and other miscellaneous minions hanging on his every gurgle and wail, just as though they were already Confessed. (When do Confessors get their powers? She must remember to watch for that.)

"My Lady?" she asks, letting none of these thoughts show on her face.

But when she hears Lady Rahl's request, Dahlia permits herself to raise her eyebrows. "You want me to…train you?" she asks doubtfully. _Not without Lord Rahl's permission—although the prospect does have a certain appeal…I know I can make her scream._

"No, I want you to practice with me," Lady Rahl smiles, her lack of anger at Dahlia's suggestion surreal. She links her arm with Dahlia's and pulls her along the corridors. "Where can we go?"

Dahlia's first thought is that her Sisters can't find out about this—unless she can turn being at the beck and call of Lord Rahl's Confessor bride into an advantage, somehow—so they can't go down to the Mord'Sith Headquarters. "The northern courtyard will be deserted," she says, "but you can't be serious—you're a Lady."

If Dahlia harms one hair on Lady Rahl's head—Lord Rahl was very specific.

But Lady Rahl once fought daily for her life, and life in the Palace, periodic assassins or not, can't compare to the adrenaline rush, knowing it's just you against the world—if you like that sort of thing.

Lady Rahl is out of practice, but it's really something to see, watching her fight in her heavy, billowing skirts, swift and graceful as she shouldn't be able to be. They don't use weapons at first, simple hand-to-hand—

Following the forms she knows backwards and forwards, Dahlia meets Lady Rahl's every move. Dahlia's style is defensive, a technique she perfected sparring with Cara and her other Sisters, none of whom will ever give an inch.

In contrast, Lady Rahl is definitely offensive, pressing every advantage—in the sheer joy of the struggle, her eyes light with a warm fire, and Dahlia responds instinctively, drawing her agiels and grinning.

Something changes in their fight—where before they were each careful not to so much as bruise, more dancing than sparring, now Lady Rahl becomes a whirlwind, her hair slipping out of its coiffure in dark wisps, her trained strength returning to her—Dahlia lets her agiels find Lady Rahl's skin, burning through her ridiculous velvet gown—

Lady Rahl is a Confessor, and Dahlia is a Mord'Sith. No matter how politely this was begun, there is only one way it can end.

What could be seconds or hours later, they both stop, standing absolutely still, their breath rasping—Lady Rahl's hand is around Dahlia's throat, nails digging into the soft skin above her neckguard, and Dahlia's agiel hovers inches from Lady Rahl's chest.

Their eyes meet, and Dahlia forces hers to be as opaque as a mirror, giving nothing away. Lady Rahl can't Confess her—she still wears the Rada'Han. But if she starts squeezing Dahlia's throat—

It would be so easy, to close the distance, press her agiel against her Lady's heart—but it's not as though Lord Rahl would let her death be quick, after that. (Why does Lady Rahl mean so much to him? Dahlia thinks she knows.)

She moves first, sheathing her agiel and standing passive in Lady Rahl's grasp.

Lady Rahl's eyes are very blue—like pieces of the sky. Dahlia watches, and waits.

Impossibly, Lady Rahl seems to move closer, swaying toward Dahlia, lips parting—Dahlia feels her own blood heating with something sweeter than the joy of battle, although similar—if Lady Rahl is thinking what Dahlia is, she's not so far from a Mord'Sith as she would have the people believe.

But then her expression closes, and she steps back, releasing Dahlia—she picks up her skirts and runs from the courtyard, as though she believes she's pursued by all the armies of the Keeper.

Dahlia watches thoughtfully, until Lady Rahl disappears.

* * *

><p>Darken sits in his study, going over reports from his soldiers and his Mord'Sith…there is nothing urgent, no special crisis crying out for his attention. The peace, cemented with his and Kahlan's marriage, is real.<p>

If only life inside his Palace were as calm as outside it…or perhaps not. Darken doesn't want calm, but he does want something, and just because he's let Kahlan withdraw somewhat, their conversations almost always about Nicholas—she spends her days in the nursery, and her nights alone in her rooms—doesn't mean he's given up on convincing her to be his Queen in every way.

He doesn't know whom she thinks she's kidding, never giving orders to his servants. She's the Mother Confessor—she can't fool him into thinking she's some peasant girl, lost in his Palace.

It is…irritating, how much she fills his thoughts. But she is his Queen, the mother of his son…it cannot be otherwise.

The door opens; Darken's hand goes immediately to the spare dagger always on his person, because peace or not, there's no need to take chances, but it's only Dahlia.

She waits respectfully in the doorway, fist over her heart, until he waves her inside, with one languid hand.

"Well?" he asks.

Once, Dahlia told him of Cara's secret fears, protecting her Mistress the best way she could. Now, she has fallen into the same role in relation to Kahlan—certainly better suited to it than Kahlan's maid, a pathetic young woman whom Darken would find irritating if he bothered to notice her.

But when he made Kahlan his Queen, it wasn't just a courtesy title; she is surely free to choose her own servants.

Dahlia scowls, before her expression melts back into the perfectly guarded blankness of the Mord'Sith. "I think," she says, clearly torn between admiration and annoyance, "that she wants to be _friends_."

Darken blinks; friends are not a concept a man raised as he has been readily understands. Allies, lovers, servants, soldiers…but friends?

Given Kahlan's need for touch, for understanding, perhaps it makes sense; nonetheless, Darken is jealous that she doesn't come to him for her 'friendship.' Or are these things better left between women? He never let knowledge of Cara's friendship with Dahlia bother him—the situation is almost eerily similar.

"I trust," he says mildly, "that you obliged her."

"Of course," Dahlia replies, opening her eyes very wide. "As my Lord commands."

There's a smirk lurking at the corners of her utterly impassive red bow of a mouth, and Darken growls, rising from his chair and neglecting his paperwork, slipping an arm around Dahlia's waist and drawing one of her agiels…

Its power hums through him, and she drops into a fighting crouch, her smirk daring to become visible now…

Peace may be breaking out all over the land, but they both need a little violence, now and again.

Dahlia may not question Darken the way Cara did (and why can't he stop comparing them?) but she knows him perhaps even better—her silences are deceptive. But her loyalty is absolute—Kahlan couldn't be in better hands.

Maybe, with Dahlia's help, Darken can be patient.

He has his family at last—he has Nicholas, a gift he can never deserve.

(Not after what happened to Cara's son…)

But with the Seeker's death (the Sword of Truth hanging like a trophy on Darken's stone wall), perhaps his luck has finally changed.

He lets himself forget it all, lost in the moment—he and Dahlia wear matching, sharp-edged smiles.


End file.
